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Is it just me, or has Ireland turned into a rainforest? It’s been humid with monsoon-level rain at times. I can’t get anything done with these hourly changes in the weather.
The bugs are in full flight, too. The horseflies are having great fun taking chunks out of me. I will need to start wearing some kind of net to keep them at bay. It’s this time of year I remind myself: it could be worse. I could be down in the bog footing turf.
Oh, to think back on the misspent days of my youth: labouring away turning turf and hauling it home.
The bog
The bog always seemed to be my community service for the old lad and a few neighbours.
My hands would be in bits from pulling the sticky sod. There were always a few prickly heathers or nasty thistles hidden under the turf. I would spend days turning turf over so the sun could dry it out.
This was back-breaking labour for a child, but it had its rewards: those lovely picnics with the family in such scenic and calm spots. It always smelled so nice down there. Maybe it was the heather or the sod, but it filled your head with sweet scents.
Then there were plenty of little flies eating you alive, as well as the odd frog scaring the life out of you when you put your hand in a bog hole.
It’s the kids I feel sorry for; they never got the chance to suffer in the bog. Maybe someday I will take them for the laugh to the last few bogs and just leave them there until they foot some random plot.
Once the turf was dry, you had to head back again to stack or heap it so it would be easier to pick up and haul home. We had great fun jumping into the back of the transport box; bouncing along the bog to pick up a load and drop it into the trailer – always making sure we didn’t run into a wet spot or a dyke.
While I did hate the hard work, I recognise now how important it was to save the turf as it kept us nice and warm through winter.
I still love the smell of turf to this day. I know it’s a tradition that will eventually fade away for environmental reasons, but I feel we’ll have lost something of ourselves in the process.
Where I live, I’m surrounded by bogs. Our pastures go right down to unused bog. I can’t even remember when the last turf was saved from it. I vaguely remember seeing old machinery in there – not working; just left stuck in bog holes.
Huge machines were used back in the day to take out the sod. They now lay stuck, as if the bog has eaten them up.
The future
It’s nice now, looking out on it and seeing all the beautiful heather and fauna. I don’t know a lot about biodiversity, but I do know if you leave land alone for long enough, nature has its way of returning back to what it was.
My house has an air-to-water pump and underfloor heating. The father was involved in the discussion when we put it in. He couldn’t understand how you pull heat out of the air. It made no sense – especially in the winter – to him. My wife was so pleased, though. No more hauling in turf and hauling out ash.
It’s the kids I feel sorry for; they never got the chance to suffer in the bog. Maybe someday I will take them for the laugh to the last few bogs and just leave them there until they foot some random plot. “It builds character,” is what I will tell the other half.
In the meantime, there are plenty of other jobs around the farm. I have to get a few animals home for the mart and dose a few others.
I need to keep looking busy.
Herself is threatening me with a holiday. Doesn’t she know a farmer never truly leaves the farm? If Elon Musk gave me a ticket to fly into space to see the planet earth, I’d still be looking down wondering, “Did I fix the wire where the heifers are grazing?”
Still, I’d better make an effort for her. Otherwise, I might be spending the winter sleeping in the bog.
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